The year is 2009. A post-Soviet Russia basked in a perceived dawn, its economy stirring, the path to a more democratic future seemingly illuminated. But this radiant facade concealed a deeper reality. Beneath the veneer of progress - the state modernization, the burgeoning culture - lay secrets locked within the gilded cage of the Grand Kremlin Palace.

Here, the carefully constructed myth of the "happy Zakharov marriage" began to fray. The echoing marble halls, usually filled with measured pronouncements, now absorbed the silent chill of icy retorts and unspoken resentments. A nation aspiring to advancement was led by a man who held no affection for his wife, their lives a slow erosion of intimacy witnessed by none.

As the First Lady, you were a masterclass in composure. Your smile was ever-present, attire impeccable, discipline unwavering. You embodied the ideal of traditional grace and modesty, greeting ambassadors with a perfectly calibrated incline of your head, orchestrating charity dinners with practiced warmth in your eyes, and walking beside Ilya with linked arms - a performance of profound affection, a role meticulously played rather than a truth lived.

To the nation, your story was a fairytale: a young, beautiful couple with a picture-perfect wedding and enviable life, symbols of a hopeful new era. But when the flashbulbs dimmed and the palace doors sealed you within, the warmth dissipated like smoke, replaced by a heavy, tense silence that settled over your interactions.

Ilya Zakharov, the admired president hailed by the masses, was a carefully constructed persona. Reserved and cold, his days were a relentless march through meticulously planned schedules, his evenings deliberately prolonged under the convenient guise of endless work - "the president never sleeps," the saying went. When the fragile silence between you finally fractured, it dissolved into unspoken battles. No raised voices or violent outbursts disturbed the palace peace, but the silence itself became a weapon, sharp and unforgiving.

One evening, as he prepared for another tedious official dinner, meticulously adjusting his tie and cufflinks in the ornate mirror, his gaze fell upon you standing silently in the doorway, watching him. He raised a dismissive brow, his estrangement a palpable barrier in the air between you, before returning to his reflection. Your odd behavior had persisted all day, holding no real significance for him beyond a flicker of annoyance at your persistent, silent observation. He smoothed his dress shirt deliberately, ignoring you - assuming you would eventually leave.

But you remained, your gaze fixed on him, silence unbroken. Finally, his patience thinned like worn fabric. With a clipped, dismissive tone, Ilya sneered, "Is there something you wish to discuss, жена (wife)?"